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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183647">Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort'>Tethys_resort</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crafts, F/M, Family, Married Couple, Mental Health Issues, Oath of Fëanor, Silmarils, Starting Over, The Valar, Valinor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:27:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183647</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nerdanel, Feanor and the choices that were made.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Calcining</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Trigger warnings:  I think I covered it in the tags...  But if you have questions please message me.</p><p>A big thank you to Lferion for their painting "Fireheart"!  Your art is wonderful!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>Feanaro looked around.  The courtyard was sunny, pleasant with ferns and overhanging trees.  Sunshine was a new thing.  He had watched Arien and Tillion take flight that first time in a tapestry, he thinks.  But that portion of his stay in the Halls was rather fuzzy.  Namo had informed him that collecting all the little toasted, shredded and mangled bits of soul and sticking them back into a semblance of order had been troublesome.  His mother and father had laughed and Finwe joked that perhaps they had not gotten all the pieces where they belonged.</p>
<p>At least, he hoped it was a joke. </p>
<p>He stepped out farther into the middle and winced up at the brightness, the Light of the Trees but in a new form.  Not as glorious, more mundane.  He had to admit at least perhaps a fairer form, more just, carried across the world for all and safe from all. </p>
<p>The table under the tree had clothing.  Work trousers and a light tunic in a color mirroring the green of the ferns.  Not his colors, but he wasn’t sure he would claim those colors again. </p>
<p>Not after watching his sons die one by one, dragged by an Oath he had urged them into and they had followed of misplaced love and loyalty.  And all the elves who loved and depended on them helplessly dragged along behind. </p>
<p>He fingered the clothing and smiled, a little of his mother clung within the weaving and sewing – within the creases and folds and under the buttons. </p>
<p>Lady Nienna had asked him what scars he would carry and what he would leave.  Stupid question.  Of course he would keep them all: the forge burn on his arm from his training days with Lord Mahtan.  The little divot in his shin from rushing to dive and catch his lovely Nelyafinwe who had chosen to climb a bookshelf in the great Library of the Palace and failed to consider that books are not stable handholds.  Even the knife cut Tyelkormo had given him when he tried to teach the elfling to gut a fish.  Not a bad cut, a healing and a neat line of stitches.  But his elfling had cried and cried until Feanaro had cradled him like an infant and sung lullabies. </p>
<p>The burn on the side of his hand, from the torch he used to light the boats on fire should stay too.  As a reminder. </p>
<p>Dressing was easy.  The courage to walk down the arched walkway and find out what awaited him in Valinor was harder.  Uneasily, Feanaro wondered if perhaps he could simply sit here under the trees and listen to the distant sound of water forever.  Lady Nienna had asked who would meet him.  And he had frowned back at the weeping Vala and asked, “Would anyone?  After all I made came to this?”</p>
<p>He walked out.  Of course she was there, with her long red hair burnished under the fire of the sun.  Nerdanel.  His love and a regret bigger than his sons. </p>
<p>She looked at him as if at a block of prized stone with an unexpected flaw in its core. </p>
<p>Long, long ago she had laughed and smiled at him under the Light of the Trees.  Less long ago but still distant she had said, “I am going.  When you are ready to talk I am always waiting, my Love.”  She had not cried, but looked directly into his eyes in challenge before leaving Formenos. </p>
<p>Now, her face was more pale than he thought it should be, slightly greyish under the rich bronze.  There was an exhausted bend to her lips and a worn look around her eyes as she looked at him.</p>
<p>His heart broke a little that she had waited through all these Ages of change. </p>
<p>The critical stare gentled a little and she stepped up and cupped his chin.  “Well, now then.  Let’s go home.”  There was no world, no reality, no dream within the tapestries that could compare with the warm fingers and the slight scrape of calluses.  He reached out, and she stepped back, leading him away through the trees and down the path. </p>
<p>He could see the pain and hurt in the set of her shoulders and the way the long braid down her back twitched with each step.  Ah, his love and the center of his world, walking away.  Helplessly he followed as quietly as he could. </p>
<p>That night they slept under the boughs of giant evergreens, one under each tree.  Facing each other from a short and overwhelming distance.</p>
<p>He fell asleep to the sound of a nightjar and a quiet dream of hugging his children. </p>
<p>The next day was misty amid the trees. </p>
<p>But in the next the sunshine shone down in yellow pillars as the day wore on.  It struck him as a garish color, the sun in trees.  She did not seem to notice as he paused to stare but still slowed her pace enough that he always easily caught up.</p>
<p>It took a meaningless progression of days and nights to get to Nerdanel’s house on the edge of Tirion.  Nerdanel said nothing, but handed him his canteen to drink and dropped travel rations into his hands.  He savored the clear taste of the water, and reflected that travel rations had changed not at all since the Light of the Trees.</p>
<p>Nerdanel’s house was one story tall and sprawled, easily large enough for her and the servants apparently living there too.  It had thick stone walls carved into a bewildering swirl of figures and scenes in which Feanaro recognized Nerdanel’s hand in creating but not her art.  The roof tiles were a cozy sunset orange gleaming in the late afternoon sun and echoed the color of the flowers.  He stopped to stare at the picture presented between the trees at the base of the mountain and abruptly wondered what season it was.</p>
<p>He said, “Where is the mansion?”</p>
<p>“Gone.”  Nerdanel’s eyes narrowed and she drew a deep breath before she said, “For now, you will stay in the garden room on the back of the house.”</p>
<p>He obediently followed her through the open front room, through the dining room and into a window covered almost-corridor.  There was even a dresser and bed waiting for him and he lay down to stare at the wood and stone around him. </p>
<p>Nerdanel made a slight choking noise and he looked at her.  She said, “I will be in my studio.  If you choose to stay here I will send someone to fetch you for dinner.” </p>
<p>A couple of days later he sat in the warm sun and admired the way the colors in the trees changed from moment to moment.  The flowers and vegetables climbed over each other in an untidy sprawl, peas climbing up sunflowers and the thyme edging the walk.  It had taken a while to notice while sitting here, but if you tallied the varieties there was a full vegetable garden and a full flower garden in the mixed clumps.  Feanaro wondered where the idea came from, to plant like that.  It was a very un-Noldor look.</p>
<p>As he sat, Nerdanel came and stared at a him for long minutes before she said, “Why did you not stay in the Halls?  Why did you come back?  Why you instead of any of our sons?”</p>
<p>The words were spoken harshly and any response he could make was lost in a great whirling emptiness inside that he had carefully ignored.  He gasped for air as he looked back up at Nerdanel standing over him.  There was a smudge of rock dust across her forehead, light gray accenting deep crimson hair.  There was a worn look to her face, her nose slightly raw on one edge from crying.  Her eyes were bloodshot but keen and fierce as she repeated, “Why?”</p>
<p>The emptiness got larger, eating up all the peace of the garden and Feanaro dug his fingers into the soft dirt, hoping he would not simply evaporate as he scrambled for an answer he didn’t have. </p>
<p>Finally he gasped out, “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>The garden was gone but for his hold on the ground, when Nerdanel knelt down in front of him and gently unbent his fingers from their grip.  She didn’t let go though, just took both hands and stood, pulling him along.  They walked that way into her studio. </p>
<p>He watched her sharpen tools until dinner, the thin rasping noises were soothing in the silence.</p>
<p>Each day after, Feanaro sat in the corner of the studio.  Wordless, hands idle.  Watching her carve.  His eyes followed each tiny motion: the rasp as it rounded a curve and the tilt of her head as she thought.  Relearning his mate’s every move as she worked.  Every night he followed her into the tiny house silently and bowed good night before going and lying on his soft bed in the back hallway where the stars were visible through the big windows at night and the dawn sun woke him. </p>
<p>Feanaro wondered if Nerdanel ever smiled anymore. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>When she awoke, it was too early. </p>
<p>At least, too few hours since she had curled up in the bed in the little room in the house she had rented in the center of town when she returned from Formenos.  Telling time’s passage was no longer a certain thing without the changing of the Lights. </p>
<p>She lay sweating in the dark and listened to the silence in her head.  HE, her love of fiery spirit and creation, was gone from all of Arda in a dream of horrible rage, pain and fire.</p>
<p>Nerdanel dressed, called her servants, and asked them to help her with her task. </p>
<p>It was on the other side of Tirion, but the streets were deserted and no one spoke to them as they walked to the abandoned mansion up against the base of the mountain.  It had been empty but for a tiny group of servants after they had gone to Formenos.  They left it standing open with the Darkening and Flight.</p>
<p>Now it stood, windows broken and front door swinging.  The kitchen was ransacked and someone had apparently once camped in the front parlor.  Nerdanel doubted they had stayed long in the haunted place. </p>
<p>Nerdanel walked through the empty rooms, her sons had not lingered long enough after the moment of the Oath to leave any imprint of themselves.  No lost books in Carnistir’s room, no piles of musical debris in Makalaure’s.  She remembered the last holidays here, with the Ambarussa running up and down the hall and Makalaure’s quiet wife tucked into the corner of any room where the action was. </p>
<p>Nerdanel laughed to herself, Makalaure’s wife was silent and far more sweet natured than any of the Feanorians.  But with nerves of steel and a major talent for Singing to wood.  On the other hand, Curufinwe’s wife was an architect, building many of the mansions around Tirion.  She had the sheer force of personality to stand up to Curufinwe’s (so like his father’s) burning passion to create.  At that last holiday she had joined Nelyafinwe in marshalling the family into order, her voice had rung clear and sure above the chaos. </p>
<p>There was nothing here now.  Nerdanel walked out through the dead kitchen garden and back to the servants and their lamps at the front.  She nodded to the servants.  “Burn it.”</p>
<p>They bowed and walked in.  It took a few minutes and they rejoined her at the front and all stood and watched the fire slowly take hold. </p>
<p>The rains were out of pattern in the darkness and everything tinder dry.  Soon the fire was a flaming beacon. </p>
<p>The mansion was only a short distance from the Palace; Arafinwe, Earwen and Anaire were among the first to appear.  The light of the fire reflected in their eyes as Arafinwe asked, “What happened?”  He looked worried, possibly because he has been working to calm terrified citizens (what were left of the Noldor at least) who were slowly running out of food and materials in the dark. </p>
<p>“He is dead.”  Nerdanel managed to keep her voice steady. </p>
<p>“Dead?”  Arafinwe looked horrified and his wife reached out toward her with words of unwelcome comfort on her lips before backing away at the expression on Nerdanel’s face. </p>
<p>“Dead.”  She looked across the gathering crowd and took a couple of deep breaths.  These next words need to be carried to all of Valinor. </p>
<p>“My husband, Feanaro Curufinwe, son of Finwe is dead over the Sea.”  The gathered crowd turned to look at her. </p>
<p>She yelled and her voiced cracked above the crackle of the fire and the crashing of falling roof tiles.  “He is gone and with him the House of Feanaro dies.  Arafinwe, fifth child of Finwe rules the Noldor but from this moment I declare this House mine and its holdings mine.”</p>
<p>She left them standing there with the roar of the flames, concussions of the rock walls themselves breaking in the heat, the shouting of neighbors.  Idly, she wondered how far the inferno could be seen.  All of Tirion, certainly.  Taniquetil, where the Valar sat fruitless?  Far away over the Sea where she could hope her sons were alive to curse their father? </p>
<p>Arafinwe watched her walk away, seemingly struck dumb and too horrified to comment. </p>
<p>She has no desire to rule.  And nothing to rule, the Noldor are now Arafinwe’s folk.  But the least she could do was see everyone who remained safe and cared for. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Smelting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Feanaro thought a lot about the past as he sat in the garden or Nerdanel’s workshop.  Everything felt completely new, and yet awakened and reawakened a thousand memories. </p><p>One day as the Nerdanel’s latest creation took form (a glorious swooping thing like leaping flames) she knocked a small chisel off the table beside her.  It landed with a tiny metallic clink and whir as it rolled off across the floor. </p><p>Exactly the sound of the rigging of the Ships as they caught the wind, and the sails billowed full. </p><p>He had burnt the Ships, even as his oldest had begged him to reconsider.  And then had accused his most responsible and reliable child of treachery.  Before the end, Nelyafinwe had been forced to watch all but one of his brothers die. </p><p>He had watched in the tapestries and wept as each was corrupted and hopelessly died because of the Oath.</p><p>A tear ran down Feanaro’s face and he began to shake as he remembered all of his sons trapped in the Halls while the Valar tried to repair the damage he had done to them.  He had begged and pleaded with Nienna to let him go to them, for a chance to make things right.  Why had Namo not had enough mercy to leave him there until all were safe and healed?</p><p>Nerdanel hopped down from her perch on the stool for the chisel and then paused as she stared at him. </p><p>He wasn’t sure what to expect when she walked up to him, but the gentle hands on either side of his face and the kiss on his brow were a complete surprise. </p><p>Stepping back, she sighed and went fishing through her workbenches.  She returned with a box and thrust the open top toward him.  “Here, pick one.”  Her voice was surprisingly gentle and there were tears in her eyes too. </p><p>The box was full of bits and scraps of stone of every sort, mostly somewhere between the size of his thumb and his whole hand.  Uncertain of what they were doing, he ignored the still falling tears to pick through carefully.  A small flat piece of jade attracted his attention with its deep brilliant greens and swirls of gray. </p><p>She took the box away and he stared at his new prize. </p><p>Nerdanel handed him a small tub of grit and board.  He stared at them and she said, “Here, like this, polish it smooth.”</p><p>At a loss for any other ideas, he obeyed. </p><p>It took days, Nerdanel handed him finer and finer grits of sand and then polish, the piece of jade became a gently curved lustrous thing that comforted his fingers and appealed to his eyes.  He carried it in his pocket. </p><p>That project finished, Nerdanel began to gently prod him off on tasks.  One morning he spent weeding the flower beds.  Under the watchful eye of the gardener after he inadvertently decimated the parsley.  Another afternoon carefully inspecting and repairing the front courtyard walls where the mortar had fallen from between the bricks. </p><p>He was silently puzzling his way through the plumbing of a tiny waterfall Nerdanel had decided should sit above the courtyard pond when his brothers came. </p><p>Feanaro completely ignored the bell at the gate, out of sight in the curved and trellised space.  But a servant answered and then went to fetch Nerdanel.  They stood in the little front alcove, unwilling to sit at the little table and chairs there. </p><p>Nerdanel was the first to raise her voice.  There was bitterness and scorn in the tone, “And have any others been made to pay?”</p><p>Nolofinwe snarled, “He is different.”</p><p>Her voice rose.  “Different how?  Different in that he stood in a different place on the docks in Aqualonde?  Different in that he betrayed his family in a different way?  Or did you mean the manner of my sons’ deaths?”  The last was delivered at a shriek that scared birds in the trees of the courtyard and silenced the little bakery down the block. </p><p>She took a deep breath and spat, “And when we have made everyone pay for their lives and deaths?  Then where shall we be?”</p><p>Arafinwe said, “Sister-“</p><p>“Am I still?”</p><p>Undeterred he tried again, “Sister by marriage, is Feanaro safe and happy?”</p><p>“As happy as a King who led his family, House and the whole of the Noldor into the jaws of madness and destruction.”  Her voice broke a little.  “They gave him back, but maybe not all of him.”</p><p>Arafinwe sighed.  “Like all the rest…”  He grabbed Nolofinwe when he would have said something more and began to drag him backwards out the gate.  “Nerdanel, you and Feanaro are always still family.  When he is ready, he is welcome to come visit or send an invitation.”</p><p>He kicked Nolofinwe in the ankle when his older brother resisted and then dragged him down the street with a bow in farewell.  Nerdanel watched them go and then went inside and closed the gate again.</p><p>Feanaro stared at her from under the trellis in the courtyard.  As he watched, tears began to track down her face in silence.  He stood and tried to go to her but stopped at the chilled look in her eyes.  She sighed and sat down on a bench.  After a moment of thought he sat down on the other end, pinned under her gaze.  There was a growing cold terror in his soul.  In the tapestries, he was positive he had seen Nolofinwe die.  He remembered screaming at the tapestry as his brother charged into a hopeless fight.  He was fuzzier on who else had died and was now terrified to ask.</p><p>She measured him again with her eyes.  “They all died.  I think Artanis was the only survivor from the House of Finwe.”  She gulped for air.  “And they have all come back, one by one.  Except Ambarato.  And our sons.”  She gulped air.  “It seems the Kinslayings and the Oath caused damage that is hard to fix.  And death is traumatic.  Lord Namo, Lady Nienna and Lady Este try to fix them.  They really do.  But no one is ever quite the same coming back from the Halls.”</p><p>Never quite the same?  Like the horrible silence in his soul holding back thousands of memories? </p><p>Or maybe the absence of the soul pain the Silmarils caused by both their presence and absence?</p><p>They sat in silence.  She watched the fish swim in the little pond.  He watched her and turned the scrap of jade over and over in his fingers.  Finally she said, “You will need to apologize to your brothers and sisters.”</p><p>He would have protested before, blustered about how they hated him.  But here and now she simply gazed at him and he said, “I will think on it.”  She nodded and went inside, coming out with a bowl of fresh strawberries from the market.  They ate them together next to the half built waterfall and the roses.</p><p>For the first time, Feanaro wondered if maybe he could fix things.  After all, despite the screaming Nerdanel had a slight curve upward of her lips today, and even as she cried her eyes were not as dark.</p><p>He would have to think on it.</p><p>***</p><p>“It looks different.”  The words were simply dropped into the silence between them one day as she put the final polish on the statue she thought of as “Ripples in Time”.  The words echoed through the room as Nerdanel stared at Feanaro. </p><p>She thought of her return to Tirion from Formenos.  She had left her tools in their travel boxes, weeping as she fingered the small block of jade she intended to carve next.  Her mother and father invited her home, but she had declined, sure in the certainty that Feanaro would come back.   </p><p>She thought of the days after his death, time she spent carefully polishing and sharpening every chisel and rasp in her collection.  The piece of jade stood on her carving bench while she tried to decide what to carve.  And the much later days she sat while news returned from the War of Wrath, staring at yet a different block of stone, trying to bring herself to pick up a tool yet again. </p><p>Down the bond that had been silent since that day in Formenos she said, <em>“My heart broke leaving Formenos and broke again when it didn’t save you.  And again when you died.  And again when news came of our sons.”</em></p><p>Finally she said, “I made statues of all of my sons after they told me they were dead.  They are on the forest path that goes south up the mountain from the compost pile.” </p><p>He stared at her with his eyebrows drawn together and his eyes wide and teary.  She softly called to his mind, <em>“My love, would you not go and see the faces of our children?  I made them after the War, for both of us.  If you ask, I will go with you.”</em>  There was no reply.  He had shut her out long ago and now never noticed her absence.</p><p>To keep from crying as well, she returned to work.  He stood with less life than any of her statues before rubbing a hand across his face and walking out of her studio. </p><p>She spent the rest of the day humming to the block of stone, hearing the tiny Song in return from the different crystals.  High and clear for the little quartz crystals, muted but strong for the creamy plagioclase.  Tiny little echoes in minor keys for the little flecks of micas.  If she listened close enough, she could forget the past in the Song.</p><p>Nerdanel did not see Feanaro again until the next morning. </p><p>***</p><p>Nerdanel looked at her new house, her House with the remnants and sad tatters of the House of Feanaro and tried to smile at the new beginning. </p><p>Even on this side of Tirion the smell of burning still hung in the air, bitter in the dark and mist.  The servants who stayed were speaking of trying to garden in the dark backyard by hanging lamps over the beds.  Without the Light of the Trees all the plants around Tirion were fading and dying. </p><p>And she spent a few hours each day keeping up with the pathetic pile of House paperwork, much reduced now that only a handful remained.  Finally out of paperwork and other paltry distractions, Nerdanel forced herself to go and carve.  She lit a couple of lanterns from the house and set them in her new studio with its old tools. </p><p>Thousands of years later she still shakes when she remembers how much courage it took to line up the gentle jade block she had saved all this time, waiting for Feanaro to return.  To trace out the arcs and curves of the plan she had already laid out in her notebook. </p><p>Carving didn’t go well.  It didn’t flow like it had before. </p><p>Feanaro had grown angry, bitter and suspicious.  He had slowly come to count status over his children, running them down roughshod in his disappointment that only one inherited a semblance of his talent.  In Formenos he had slipped precipitously.  He ignored her and rampaged, screaming about plots and secrets.  She tried to argue and make him see reality again.  Blocked out and frightened she had run, hoping her departure would jolt him to sanity and save them all. </p><p>The light of the lanterns and lamps wasn’t the same and felt artificial and unalive. </p><p>Everything she carved was not quite alive.  Not quite right.  Somehow the carving was not right for the stone or the stone not right for the carvings.  She took out more paper and resketched and took the time to lay out the pattern with a grease pencil but nothing worked.  The rock would not Sing, the tools felt cold. </p><p>She grew angry and grabbed up the chunk of uncooperative jade, pitching it down onto the stone floor with all of her strength.  It shattered with a thud and the tiny crushed sounds of the rock fragmenting internally. </p><p>In tears, Nerdanel stared down at the broken bits and strode out of her workroom. </p><p>She didn’t go back to her workroom the next day.  Instead she went for a walk through the dark streets of Tirion.  Houses were shuttered with broken doors.  The streetlights lay smashed in little sharp piles.  The elves still haunting the streets sounded hollow and lost, terrified of the dark.  She watched a fight erupt in the marketplace, two elves frantic with fear wanted the same last couple of apples the vendor might ever have.  The beautiful stepped gardens around the Palace, there since the beginning, were fading.  Their paths were littered with out of season dead leaves there was no one left to sweep.</p><p>Tirion was dying. </p><p>She walked until she was tired, aimless without the Light of the Trees to keep the time.  Then went back to the house and sat down amid the green beans and radishes.  Her garden was straggling and thin, despite the best the gardener could Sing to it.  But alive and still growing.  The last sad remnant of the elves of her House were still striving. </p><p>The lamps Feanaro had made were making the difference.  If she recalled, the lamps were not difficult to make.  Just not straightforward to invent.  Nerdanel stared at her garden and then went to pack and rent a horse. </p><p>The plans were still in their boxes in Feanaro’s study in Formenos. </p><p>The journey was long and cold and Formenos still haunted with the evil that had visited it.  She got what she had come for, ignored the rest, and rode away in the same day.</p><p>Back in Tirion she sent a copy to King Arafinwe, and then sat down in the kitchen with a pile of supplies to work out how Feanaro had done it. </p><p>Five years later she went and got out her dustpan and broom to carefully sweep up the mess still lying on her workroom floor amid the scattered tools and thick dust. </p><p>She sorted out the useful bits and stored them away for another project before setting a fresh block of stone and staring at it.  A crisp white block of marble, it did not suit her mood and she put it away.  The next, a soft grayish brown volcanic rock, Sang back to her sweetly.  It had little blue crystals that Sang to her like smiling eyes.  Her fingers had lost their muscles and callouses, but remembered how to carve.  The little stone bird that emerged from the carving was a slight surprise but even now perched in the garden amid the flowers.</p><p>Carving and Singing to the stone never came as easy again because Nerdanel could not bring herself to force her will into the stone and force the carving to her desires. </p><p>After the War, the first place Arafinwe came was her little house with its wide garden.  She cried all night after he left, and in the morning she went and sang to the large blocks in her side yard, to find which would be carved into the likenesses of her family.  She thanked them as they cooperated. </p><p>As she carved and polished the last of the memorials she wondered if emotions could be sculpture.  Could you capture the dense tough tones of a piece of marble?  Or the crystalline clear joy of the granite?  Maybe the sound of the endless Sea?</p><p>***</p><p>Feanaro wasn’t sure what he was doing or what he expected as he carefully walked behind the compost piles, through the beehives, and followed the tidy trail up the mountain. </p><p>He wasn’t sure how he’d find the statues either, until he walked out into the open air of a wide meadow.  Probably an old landslide by the scattering of boulders.  It was covered in wildflowers: the summer ones dried and gone, the few fall flowers in full and glorious bloom. </p><p>And all the way around the edge of the meadow, widely spaced but placed to look inward toward the center, were his children. </p><p>He halted to stare and then walked to the closest, Pityafinwe.  Nerdanel had carved the tiny tilt of his head and half smile he always wore.  Telufinwe was next to him, but there was a wide space before the next statue of Carnistir.  The statues were perfect in every detail, but showed the wear of thousands of years of sun, rain and snow despite the careful Songs of preservation he could sense.  In front of each was a small dried bouquet of flowers. </p><p>Feanaro walked the entire circle slowly as daylight faded and then sat down in front of Nelyafinwe.  Nerdanel had captured perfectly the slightly ironic lift of eyebrow and proud set of chin his son always had.  Had even worn as he had begged his father not to break faith with his uncles.  It was the eyes that had become bitter in those last battles before Feanaro’s death. </p><p>He looked up at the statue again.  “Did you hold it against me?  Ever?  Or just blame yourself as you always did when I let you down?”  He sat down and leaned against the statue so he could stare across the meadow in the twilight.  “I hope you hated me instead of yourself.”</p><p>Feanaro watched the stars come out before walking down the trail again in the dark.  He lay in bed that night and cried. </p><p>Fall deepened to winter.  And winter went from soft and damp to harsh and bitter. </p><p>It got too cold in the garden room.  Feanaro would have simply added more blankets, but one night as the frost drew patterns on the inside of the glass, Nerdanel appeared and said, “Come on.”</p><p>She led him to her bed.  Plain, not as big as the bejeweled thing he made for her in the mansion next to the Palace, with its colorful tapestries hanging on the sides, but still large enough for two comfortably. </p><p>In the dark they lay side by side and listened to the blank quiet of the softly falling snow.  Feanaro could hear the occasional tree branch creak and the soft “wuff” of a pile of snow settling to ground.  Nerdanel whispered, “They came back.  The soldiers.  By ones and twos returned by Mandos and maimed from over the Sea.  But they told me the news.”  Her voice shook as she continued on.  “Your brother wept to tell me.  How all my sons were dead and you had died in fire.”  She sighed.  “And I could only think, ‘so typical’.  So typical to burn like the fires of creation in your death.  So typical to be so full of pride.  So typical for my sons to die trying to live up to your standard and desires.”</p><p>My sons.  My sons too, Feanaro thought. </p><p>Her voice rose.  “And that Oath!  Not bad enough Father Finwe was dead.  Not bad enough the Trees were fallen and Evil walked with us again.” </p><p>Feanaro tried not to cry out at the pain in her voice. </p><p>She sat up and looked down on him and he could see the fires, the same fires that had both made and eaten him burning behind her eyes.  “You abandoned me.  You abandoned duty and honor.  And then abandoned your brothers and sisters.  And then abandoned your sons.  All for what?  Pride?”</p><p>She seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer.  He said, “I am sorry.”</p><p>She humphed at him and glared harder. </p><p>He said, “I will do better.  I have learned better.” </p><p>He stared as tears sprang up in her eyes and tried to reach out.  She shied back and said, “Our sons became the stuff of nightmares!  The dark warning in the night!”</p><p>Tears dripped down her face and he sat up to face her.  He reached out.  This time his fingers touched hers.  “I love you Nerdanel.  I love my sons and my grandchildren.  Please love me and forgive me.” </p><p>She reached back and they cried themselves to sleep. </p><p>He slept through the winter on his side of the bed.  When spring came he waited but she said nothing and he stayed, reassured by the sound of her breathing in the night. </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Casting</h2></a>
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    <p>The peach trees were blooming again when over breakfast Nerdanel said, “The crafters market is tomorrow, do you wish for any supplies?” </p><p>That afternoon he sat in the corner of her workshop and carefully made a list.  Supplies to build another room, with a workbench and a small forge for piecework and casting.  Supplies to build a desk in the garden room and shelves for books and sundry. </p><p>He had neither books nor supplies or any real responsibilities requiring a desk.  He tried to ignore the thought that he hadn’t noticed their absence until this moment. </p><p>He worked on it steadily and it only took a month or so for Feanaro to sit at his new workbench.  He made it himself, along with the small shed it sat in and a forge along the back wall.  Tiny, compared to his old forge.  But probably the perfect size now. </p><p>His first project was to carefully cast the parts that would finally make the little courtyard waterfall flow properly instead of burbling out the sides of the sculpture onto the floor tiles.  And then to redo the kitchen faucet and pump. </p><p>His fingers are still attracted to metal and gems, though he was determined to never Sing to them again.  Better to fix and repair and carefully tend the house and yard than create more death and destruction. </p><p>The leaves were just turning color when Makalaure’s wife stopped by.  She was dressed for travel and carried a small pack.  He remembered Makalaure sending her back to Tirion and wondered what she had been up to all these centuries.</p><p>He smiled and called, “Please, come in and sit in the shade and I will get the servants to make something to drink.  Are you here to see Nerdanel?”</p><p>“Yes.”  Her voice broke and she tried again.  “I brought pastries to share.  The ones down the street are good.”  She waved the little basket at him as evidence. </p><p>He backed up a little, her quiet voice was as level as he remembered and there is a firm look to her jaw as if she is gritting her teeth.  But her face was rapidly losing its color.  Instinctively he backed up several more steps, suddenly terrified Makalaure’s wife would run from him. </p><p>They stood, staring at each other from the distance of each side of the courtyard until Nerdanel, alerted by the servants, rushed out to hug the female standing awkwardly with her basket of pastries.  Nerdanel ushered her towards the little bench under the roses. </p><p>Feanaro stared at Makalaure’s wife, the graceful hands and practically braided dark brown hair.  She still wore the knife and sword she earned in Formenos.</p><p>He remembered striking her, the feeling of rage and his hand bruising the tender skin of her face.  Her blood on his forge floor.  He doesn’t remember why he was so angry.  Mad with rage.  She had come to call him to dinner, he thinks.  Not steal the Silmarils, safe in their box.  Makalaure and his brothers very carefully kept him away from her after that. </p><p>It was too hot to garden, but the path along the river would be quiet and cool this time of day.  He gathered a water flask and hat and left.  That night he sat in the middle of the meadow and listened to the crickets buzz in the trees. </p><p>The next morning he went to the corner of the garden room he had designated his “study” and fished through boxes for good paper and ink.  It was time to start making amends. </p><p>The first one to respond to his letters was Findis.  She appeared without warning one day only a week later with several of her grandchildren.  The grandchildren escorted her to the door, then took her horse and retreated to the woods and small park on the other side of the road. </p><p>Her eyes were just as sharp as he remembered and they pierced him through, illuminating his flaws and shortcomings. </p><p>Her children and grandchildren had lived safely in Valinor and fought honorably in the War of Wrath.  He opened his mouth, to say what, he wasn’t sure.  And she said, “If it is an apology, save it.  Would you ever have done anything different?”</p><p>He had asked himself that over and over since leaving the Halls.  And he still had no answer. </p><p>Findis’ slow smile overcame the scowl and she said, “Apologies only work if you are committed to do better.”  Then, laughed slightly and started fishing through the basket she always carried before handing him a smallish hoop and a carefully folded length of deep red silk.  “Here, make yourself useful.  Do you still remember the double flower chain stitches?”</p><p>He started to say he didn’t, but the memory came back to his fingers as he adjusted the fabric in its frame and spun the gold embroidery needle and silk thread between his fingers.  She smiled as he picked up the chain where it had been left.  She pulled out a second hoop to continue with a different section of the piece, an ornate well curb pattern. </p><p>They worked in silence for a while and he was soothed by the feeling of the silk under his fingers.  “What will it be when it grows up?”  The question slipped out, automatic even after millennia and she laughed outright. </p><p>“Did you know my great-great granddaughter got Father’s coloring?”  He hadn’t known she had great-great grandchildren, although it made sense because she had two children when he died. </p><p>“After all this time and all those Vanya in-laws.”  Her voice became reflective.  “One little granddaughter who looks like you, truthfully.  And loves to build and create mechanisms and workings in a family of gardeners.”</p><p>She adjusted the hoop down a little.  “I made sure to always gift her with more tools and then sent her off to be apprenticed in Tirion.”  She smiled at the fabric.  “She came home at this last Midsummer with her hair a little shorter on one side – something about smelting.”</p><p>Feanaro remembers that sort of accident, it taught him braids should be tight and tied back. </p><p>Findis’ smile went bright again.  “Hair a bit singed and with a brand new Teleri bond mate.  She asked for the Star on her bonding party cloak…  I would have objected, but Mother said it was only appropriate.” </p><p>Feanaro hadn’t realized until that moment the center of the fabric was an intricate, spiraling sun. </p><p>They worked quietly all afternoon, Nerdanel sending out cookies, snacks and fresh pots of tea.  That night Feanaro sat out in the meadow and stared at the stars, thinking of Findis as an elfling.  One day she had simply barged into his study and demanded he (as the first available adult) teach her how to embroider “just like the tapestries in the Grand Hall”.  Tapestries his mother had made. </p><p>It had never even occurred to him to turn down the very tiny elfling and they had spent months learning the patterns together. </p><p>Arafinwe sent a letter in response, politely correct but with a subtle warmth.  Feanaro would have to go to him, he thinks, to apologize and build bridges.  He never would have considered it before, too resentful of the time his father had spent with them and Lady Indis.  Now it looks a little stupid: he had always been so lonely, he could have had family if he had once reached out his hands. </p><p>Irime never responded, but in his letter Arafinwe mentioned she received the letter and traveled West into the Forests. </p><p>To his immense astonishment, Nolofinwe responded by inviting him and Nerdanel to dinner at a tavern a few blocks over.  It was an exceptionally surreal affair.  His oldest little brother brought his wife, Anaire, along and they ended up in the tiny place’s one private dining area. </p><p>Nerdanel and Anaire were obviously still good friends, and spent the entire meal quietly smiling and whispering together while Feanaro and Nolofinwe stared at each other in uneasy politeness.</p><p>It took until desert, sweet steamed cake with fruit, for Nolofinwe to suddenly blurt, “I am jealous, I think.”</p><p>Feanaro could only blink in astonishment. </p><p>Nolofinwe took another deep breath, ignoring the cake.  “Mother, and all of us always seemed second best in everything.  And now, Father is dead but instead of being re-embodied, he is staying with your mother.  Not mine.”</p><p>Dinner was very silent after that, but just before he left he said, “Your son wrote the Noldolante.”  And, “Arafinwe wants to know if you will challenge him for the throne.” </p><p>Feanaro was astonished at the comment and numbly bid his brother good bye before blankly walking home and sitting down in the courtyard with a sick stomach and tingling hands.  Nerdanel looked at him and then left and returned with a cup of tea that smelled like flowers.  She set it next to him and then retreated back to her workshop despite the hour. </p><p>He sipped the tea and thought.  He hadn’t even thought about the fact that he was still the oldest son of Finwe.  He no longer wished to rule, the very idea made him sick.</p><p>He wonders if that desire was a Morgoth fed whisper, rooted in the insecurity of his half siblings.  Or perhaps the Valar had excised it from him at his death.  Or, maybe, just maybe he had grown up a little. </p><p>Findis had asked him if he could ever have done differently.  Different implies better.</p><p>If he could have done better, it would not have been in his relationship with his siblings.  Because he cannot figure out how it ever would have been different without his father himself changing.  And it would not have been the creation of the Silmarils, despite them being the agent of his destruction.  Because not even the Valar had predicted the Silmarils and the one sailing in the night sky was a joy and wonder to behold. </p><p>He watched it night after night, the Vingilote gliding on its master’s errands, and felt nothing but wonder in the jewel against the stars. </p><p>Pride.  It would have been his pride. </p><p>Without the stubborn pride and the overinflated ego that went with it, always hunting to be better in every way possible, he would have had a little more care for his children and mate.  Instead he winced as he thought of the way Nelyafinwe had meekly striven to excel in the eyes of his father.  And Makalaure had sung and Sung desperately.  Tyelkormo, Pityafinwe and Telufinwe ran away.  Carnistir took mute refuge in his mathematics and logic puzzles.  Curufinwe had basked in his craft, growing arrogant in his security above his brothers.   </p><p>And Nerdanel eventually ran from them, all lost in his madness.</p><p>Lady Nienna had hugged him when he begged them to save his children, or let him.  And then soon after kicked him out into Valinor to stagger through his regrets. </p><p>Feanaro put his workroom into order and shut the door before walking out and along the mountain path to stare at the statues around the edge of their clearing.  The grass was long and tangled, the wildflowers spent for the year. </p><p>Eventually he came back in. </p><p>Nerdanel watched him silently over breakfast the next day but said nothing.  When they left the table, he picked up her hand and kissed it before retreating to his study.  It was time to write another letter.</p><p>He wasn’t sure what to expect in return for his letter.  But one month later, Makalaure’s wife stood in the courtyard with the group of minstrels she traveled with now.  And Curufinwe’s wife, tall and proud but silently watching him.  Feanaro noticed the minstrels unobtrusively stayed between them, although Makalaure’s wife once more brought pastries to share with Nerdanel.  Astonishingly, there was a pastry for him: offered neatly on a plate and passed from across the room.</p><p>It was a start, at least.</p><p>Feanaro wasn’t sure what was more heartbreaking, hearing the Noldolante or knowing it was his lost son who wrote it. </p><p>He tried to remind himself their children would not be lost forever.  Mandos would give them back one by one, as repaired as possible.  If he had to build a boat (he would never steal one again, and he doubted the Teleri had forgiven him enough yet for any gem or price for a ride) and sail back to Middle Earth to retrieve Makalaure he would. </p><p>After they left he went to the statue meadow.  Nerdanel walked up with him and they slept side by side under the stars.</p><p>After embroidery with Findis his fingers itched to create.  Perhaps Nerdanel would like a new bedspread?  He couldn’t remember her favorite flowers, but her favorite color was still orange.</p><p>He worked on it in the evenings, now spent in peace sitting next to Nerdanel at the hearthside.</p><p>But embroidery wasn’t enough to occupy his mind and he resumed sketching.  And this time as he sketched and modeled he thought of the folk of Aqualonde.  It was a tiny thing, but he thinks the lock system for the city canals could be improved to open and close better. </p><p>His next project was a better system of communication.  It is quite truthfully flattering and depressing that his palantiri are yet unmatched and unduplicated.  He visualized every elf being able to simply communicate like that and smiled at the drawings.  He kept running into snags: not every elf in Valinor had the willpower or strength of Song to use his original creations. </p><p>Ideas flowed out of his fingers and he noted them down one by one and sorted them by how useful they were to how many elves. </p><p>It was never enough, but at least a start. </p><p>***</p><p>Summer was in full flower again when Feanaro said to Nerdanel, “May I take you on a picnic?”</p><p>She blinked, and stared at her sculpture reflectively before turning and staring at him in that way she had that seemed she was staring at his soul.  “Cook said the blackberries are especially nice this year.”</p><p>Blackberries had always been a favorite of hers, and he would grab at any encouragement.  Feanaro beamed and bowed before catching up a hand and kissing the back as it gripped a grease pencil.  “The day after tomorrow I will take you for a picnic my love.”</p><p>Cook was agreeable enough to make a fine picnic for two (complete with a blackberry tart) and reminded him to take baskets and pick the berries along the river.  He borrowed a pair of horses from the stable in the center of town.  Two quiet working horses, friendly but not flashy. </p><p>They rode in silence.  Nerdanel’s braid gleamed and flashed in the sun as she turned and smiled.  When he pulled out the berry baskets after lunch she leaned in and kissed his cheek before lightly dancing off toward the thorny bushes. </p><p>He followed, carefully picking berries and sticking the occasional one in his mouth.  His wife danced through the thick damp grass, wicker basket in hand.  Not many berries appeared to make it as far as the basket and she gained berry stained lips that clashed with her hair but not her smile. </p><p>The Noldor lords had always whispered about his choice.  The powerful Singer from a smith family, with wide hands and broad shoulders.  Who unlike her father with the matching hair, drew life from stone rather than gems or metal like a decent Noldor Lady. </p><p>Kindness and wisdom to shame any other. </p><p>He wondered, is beauty a commodity?  Could you weigh something so perfectly crafted?</p><p>Should you even try?</p><p>Feanaro rolled a berry between his fingers and held it up to the sun to bring out the deep purple highlights.  He had never seen cloth dyed to match the color of a simple blackberry.  If he created wonder and joy would it help heal the wounds he created millennia ago and left to fester? </p><p>***</p><p>One day he ran through the early spring rain into Nerdanel’s workshop and asked, “Let’s try something new?  Let’s build something together?  I was thinking, like a sculpture using stone, metal and cloth?  Maybe it could move?  With gears?”</p><p>Nerdanel looked stunned at his sudden entry.  Belatedly he realized how he must look: his hair held up in a complicated knot devised around a C-clamp formerly lying on his desk, a pair of calipers in one hand and a grubby piece of paper in the other. </p><p>He sighed, he had simply had the most wonderful idea he wanted to share. </p><p>But Nerdanel was smiling at him.  She set down the hammer and heavy chisel she used for preliminary shaping and walked over to him.  As he held his breath she reached out and cupped one of his cheeks.  For the first time in all those thousands of years apart he spoke down their bond, <em>“Together?”</em></p><p>She leaned in and pulled him toward her, kissing his lips lightly.  <em>“Oh my love.  Welcome back.”</em></p><p>The first sculpture they built together was a wonder.  And lasted roughly five minutes before it came apart with a sudden bang and scattering of parts. </p><p>They sat together under the table they had used for shelter and laughed. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>See the original art here:  https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/50283787271_3bf81db40e_h.jpg</p></blockquote></div></div>
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